


There's Been A Million Before Me

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Series: The Lights Of The City [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bad Decisions, Birb Pack things, Drinking, I had to include the kilt, I'm finally writing SP Patrick, It has taken me how long now?, M/M, Trick or Pete 2019, but then end up being good, gratuitous use of adjectives, part one of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 03:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21264176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: When you are starting a new job after a failed relationship, the obvious thing to do is go out on Halloween and get drunk right? Right.  Written for Trick Or Pete 2019





	There's Been A Million Before Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlesnowpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/gifts).

> This has been a bit of a winding road to get here that originally involved strippers and morphed into.... this. It was supposed to be a one-shot. It... may not be anymore. Cause I need a new series like another hole in the head. Special thanks and love go out to the Discord Pack for encouragement, laughter, support, and love. I wouldn't do it without y'all. Endless love and cookies to the organizers for their tireless work and creativity. They make things happy. 
> 
> Aural satisfaction: Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy

Patrick Stump is hot. Not aesthetically, really, although he isn’t exactly a swamp monster, but he is just a little (a lot) too short, too pale and too soft to really fit the accepted model, in his opinion anyway. No, what he is absolutely boiling. The bar is small, crowded and hot as hell, way too many people and way too much booze packed into a room the approximate size of a cocktail napkin with exceedingly questionable music. That’s why he’s hot, of course. It couldn’t be the full dress shirt, suit and tie he was wearing, of course not. He blames Joe. He ALWAYS blames Joe, and not only because most of the time it actually was his fault. The curly-haired music teacher is Patrick’s oldest friend and constant enabler/ persuader of deviant deeds. Joe has a gift that Patrick couldn’t quite put his finger on, for convincing Patrick to do things that he would otherwise never think of; attend a Halloween party dressed like an odd little devil, bleach his hair after a break-up, take spontaneous road trips to Michigan for no reason. Yes, Joe had unusual talents that he mostly used for evil, but he was still Patrick’s best friend and that said something after nearly twenty years from the sandbox to the sticky bar floor. 

He could have said no. He SHOULD have said no, but there was something in Joe’s tone, that wheedling, nagging, almost sing-song voice where it was usually dry and sarcastic that wriggled under Patrick’s skin like an itch without the pleasure of a scratch.  
“You’re only young once, Patrick.”  
“You need to get out more, Patrick” “  
Once you start this new job, there won’t be any more fun, Patrick.”  
''Box blondes have more fun, Patrick.” That last one had stung a bit, and if he was honest with himself, it was what truly motivated him to get moving. He huffed, running pale fingers through feathery peroxide hair, slightly too long and hanging in his eyes and did nothing but glare at the silence as Joe sipped his beer, no doubt already on his way to stratospheric if the lingering odor of weed that clung to his zombie shambles was anything to go by. That last one had done it and Patrick had huffed melodramatically and stomped up the stairs to his room, throwing open his closet with all the force he could muster and searching for a costume. Joe was of exactly zero help as he was interrupting Patrick’s yearly viewing of The Labyrinth and eating all of his Frankenberry cereal( by far the superior choice of all of the OG Halloween cereals). 

Patrick realized, looking at the contents of his closet, that he was… boring. Slacks, a dozen pairs of the same black jeans, a bundle of cardigans hung just so in color order and sneakers lining the bottom of the closet while his fedoras sat on top. Everything was simple, functional, comfortable… and a bit boring. That kind of pissed him off more than anything else and he scowled as he swung hangers aside one by one, searching for something that would work. When he finally stumbled on the garment bag ticked away in the back, Patrick’s brain kicked into overdrive and he yanked it off the rack, tossing it onto the bed, a black button-down behind it. Joe wanted him to go out with a bang, well he would. 

Four hours later, black dress shoes sticking to the floor and an uncounted number of scotch and sodas later, Patrick was regretting all of his life decisions. He was sweltering through his suit which nearly glowed in the neon lights of the bar. It was red, bright, eye-searing, harlot red. Who in their right mind outfitted their wedding party in red suits? His sister, of course. It was just a little too tight now, his softer than usual waist and thighs a testament to poor decision making after a break-up and a general dislike of the gym. And also, loving to breathe. His horns, flashing brightly were askew atop his head and his eyes burned behind his contacts, in part, no doubt because of the heavy layer of black eyeliner that he had smeared on half-heartedly. It was bittersweet, but just for a moment. Gerard had left the pencil behind after one of his shows or another and Patrick was maybe, possibly not quite holding on to it for stupid, sentimental reasons. He was not. Except that he totally was. It had ended well, he and Gee. there was no heartache, no dramatics, no endless pain just an emptiness for a week or so that Patrick spent wallowing on the couch and re-watching every crime documentary he could get his hands on before bucking up and getting back to work. It hadn't been bad, as far as breakups go, foray into peroxide playland aside, and he and Gerard were still friends, which was exactly what he wanted. But goddamn was Patrick lonely. It had been a long month of sleeping alone and half-hearted and wholly unsatisfactory shower sessions with his own damn hand. He missed the closeness, the knowledge, and excitement of getting to know a lover’s body… Jesus, he was making a foray into maudlin and that was never good. Tossing back the last of his drink, he glanced around for Joe in the thick crush of bodies but he was nowhere to be found. Shrugging his shoulders to no one, Patrick headed in a slightly straight line down the sticky, dark hall that he knew headed towards the stairs that went to the roof. Technically he was not supposed to go up there, but he had also technically sucked the bar owner’s dick a time or five and there were perks to that, aside from the obvious. Gabe was generous with his affection and his real estate and if it meant getting away from the crowd, so much the better. 

Pushing the door open, Patrick made his way on only slightly unsteady feet towards the chairs that Gabe had brought up who the fuck knows when and collapsed, the opposite of gracefully, into the nearest one as he looked out over the city. It was cold, not freezing, but the kind of cold that slipped beneath collars and cuffs and whispered promises of blizzards and lake effect winds to come; at least it would have been like that at home. Here in LA? No such thing. He would take the night air however he could. If he squinted just right, he could almost see the Chicago skyline reflected against the lights of L.A. Close but no cigar. He huffed a manly sound and certainly not at all sounding like a cranky fifteen-year-old girl. At least not very much. 

“This city is NOT my city.” There wasn’t a pout nearly audible in his voice, there was NOT.

“Funny, it’s not mine either.” The voice came out of the darkness over by the entirely unneeded chimney and although Patrick startled, he didn’t turn to look at the speaker, even as gravel crunched under his feet as the man on the roof made his way towards the empty chair. Patrick still wouldn’t look at him because he was wallowing just a bit, closing his eyes against the slightly cool breeze as it ruffled his already messy hair. 

“I don’t think it’s anyone’s city, really. Not this one. There is no soul here, no real history. Even the lights are fake. Fake people, fake fun, fake lights, and fake blonde hair.” There was a perverse kind of poetry in the words and Patrick was proud of them for the slightest moment before his companion spoke up, the flick of a zippo and the warm scent of smoke filtering through the air. 

“Box blondes have less fun?” The words were delivered with a chuckle, dark and almost filthy and Patrick had to really fight himself not to turn around; why he had decided on this childish game of keep away, he didn’t know. Maybe that was the scotch. 

“What, you can tell? And here I thought I was a convincing blonde.” There was snark and a hint of a laugh in Patrick’s voice and he stretched his hands, the leather of his fingerless gloves making him feel safe and weirdly contained. 

“Convincing to anyone else maybe, but it doesn’t suit you. You seem like more of a ginger to me.” Patrick could hear the smile and peeked out of the corner of his eye towards the other chair. All he could see was the red of the cigarette and a glint of those stupid lights on silver; he hated them. 

“How do you know what I look like? It’s dark. And you don’t know my life.” When exactly had Patrick turned into a fifteen-year-old girl, he couldn’t say. Maybe about the same time as he had bought a box of hair dye in a honey cinnamon color that promised shimmering highlights. Hey, he had a new job to look forward to and he needed to make a good impression. Plus, the damn upkeep was burning the shit out of his scalp. 

“I don’t but keep talking and I just might. The alcohol never lies.” There was something slightly familiar in the cadence of the stranger’s voice but try as he might, Patrick couldn’t place it for the life of him. 

“Yeah well, I’m trying to cut back.” The words were a toss-off, haphazardly intended but ringing with a certain truth that could only be found in the drunk or small children. 

“Pretty sure you’re sans problem if Gabe let you up here, he gets pretty weird about drunks on his roof.” 

Patrick scoffed at that one, biting his tongue not to mention the laundry list of things that Gabe had absolutely no problem with on his roof, lewdness and public indecency being at the top. It took everything he had in him to stay seated, his gaze wandering back out at the skyline that stretched for miles before him. He hated it. “This city just takes people and spits them out like it needs them to survive. I want to go home.” Now there was no more edging toward maudlin, he was downright ridiculous and pouty now. 

“This whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.” The words pricked Patrick's ears, melodic and familiar all at once, in a way that he couldn’t explain; he knew them but he couldn’t figure out from where. 

“Who are you? Why do I know that?” Patrick finally turned then, squinting sea glass eyes in the darkness to finally see who he had been spilling his proverbial guts to. The sight he was met with was absolutely not what was expected. The man sprawled on the opposite chair, leather-clad legs tossed over the side, was smiling above a white and black t-shirt and a... Was that a kilt? Jesus Christ. Glints of silver were buckles and belts shining in the lights but his smile… Jesus, that smile could easily be the death of Patrick if he let it. White teeth shone in the darkness and he could just barely make out the dark patterns that crossed the stranger's arms. 

“I’m Pete. And you are?” It was a simple statement, although one Patrick didn’t seem capable of answering as he tilted his head to the side. 

“You didn’t answer mine.” The counter-argument was whip crack quick, not a single word wasted. 

“I asked you first.” If Patrick kept on this road, he would be pulling Pete’s hair by the end of the night, although that wasn’t an entirely unwelcome thought; quite the opposite actually. 

“Point. And it’s from a poem, one pretty close to my heart. Now, your name? If you don’t tell me, I am just going to give you one and you don’t get to choose.” There was something that piqued Patrick’s interest in that and he gave a smile, although it was probably more lopsided than he would have liked. 

“Do your worst.” It was less of a challenge than it was an almost blatant pick-up, but Patrick was well beyond the point of caring. 

Pete tisked, chuckling and pushed himself up, wandering around Patrick's chair with an appraising hum. “Let’s see…. Lunchbox? No. Red?” Pete ruffled his hair at that, fingers catching on a knot in the tangled strands. “Nah, you can’t really be a full ginger. How about blondie?” That one earned Pete a glare which he simply laughed at, tweaking Patrick’s glowing horns back into place. “I’ve got it. Angel. It’s perfect.” There was something akin to glee in Pete’s voice and it made Patrick equally annoyed and aroused. It was far from an unpleasant situation. 

“Fuck you.” There was no edge to the words, quite the opposite actually. Pete’s laugh was musical and Patrick could feel warm breath ghosting across his ear from behind him. 

“Was that an offer, Angel?” He’d been out of the scene for a while, but Patrick could still recognize a pick up when he got one, even though it had been years. 

“Other way around and maybe I’ll take you up on that.” The words were out of his mouth before he could even process them. Damn scotch. Pete grinned, swinging around to crouch down in front of Patrick’s chair as the moon cleared from behind the clouds, bathing them both in silvery-blue moonlight. 

“You said it, no take-backs.” There was a sudden serious in the words, although that was tipped away by the fingers that tugged on Patrick’s tie. “Your place okay?” 

Patrick didn’t think. He didn’t nod or answer. He didn’t do anything for the span of a breath that lasted a lifetime. He wasn’t sober, at all, and this was just not something he did. Good librarians and dutiful sons didn’t go home with strangers in kilts they met over philosophical ramblings on rooftops. Patrick was good, always. He thought of his orderly sweaters and carefully aligned sneakers, the white walls and alphabetized vinyl lining his living room walls, splashes of color against an otherwise cold and white box that was his generic townhouse. He thought and thought and thought until he wanted to scream. He didn’t, although somewhere, a little Jewish angel on his shoulder that sounded decidedly stoned reminded him that this wasn't a good idea. It wasn’t until Patrick surged forward, leather-clad hands fisting in Pete’s shirt and hauling him in for a kiss, desperate and needy and filled with a promise of what the rest of the night could hold. It wasn’t until he pulled back, chest heaving to properly meet Pete’s gaze, eyes like honey and amber, that he was finally able to speak through a cloud of want. 

“Patrick. My name’s Patrick.” The words were breathy in a way that Patrick hadn’t heard in his voice in a long time. 

“Well Angel, shall we?” Pete spoke with a smile evident in his voice, a trick Patrick had never really mastered. In lieu of an answer, he rolled his eyes and wiggled his phone out of a too-tight pocket, still sober enough to order an Uber. 

Straightening his horns one last time, Patrick nodded and headed towards the door. “I think so.” The sound of the door as it closed was muffled by the ruckus of the bar below and Patrick didn’t even try to find Joe as they wove through the crowd, ignoring everything except for the raw need that coursed through him. He wasn’t a person that took risks, but goddamn if Pete wasn’t a reason to change that, he didn’t know what was. 

*************************************************************************************************************

When Patrick woke up the next morning his head was pounding, muscles he couldn’t remember even having hurt and there was sunlight peeking through his windows; the watery gray of early morning. It was far, far too fucking early to be awake but something had pulled him out of a gorgeous dream of amber eyes and black ink. His vision was blurry still, and his hair hanging in front of his eyes as he sat up in the empty bed and glanced around trying to make sense of being conscious at what was obviously an unholy hour. It wasn’t until his phone chirped, a warning that the door was unlocked, that the night came rushing back to him. It wasn’t a dream. Fishing around on his nightstand, Patrick shoved his glasses on and blinked as the world went from blurry to sharp focus so quickly it almost made his stomach turn. Then again, that could have been the scotch. There was evidence scattered around the room, literally. His jacket was peeking around the doorframe in the hall, one black shoe was tossed against the closed closet door, his tie was draped over his lamp and there was a fucking kilt cast aside next to his suspenders and two still damp towels half hanging out of the laundry basket. Jesus Christ.

It had been an amazing night, obviously, if the bruises on his thighs and just this side of too painful aches shot through him at any sudden movements, a beautiful reminder of exactly what he had been missing for so long. Then again, Pete was gone without so much as a goddamn note, so maybe he was still missing it, missing everything. Shaking his head as if to physically dispel the thoughts that lingered, Patrick slowly rose from the bed and headed toward the kitchen, naked as the day he was born, soft and rumpled in the reflection of the mirror as he passed. The images that flickered across his mind, honey gold skin and black lines contrasted with pale white and blossoming red were best shoved to the side. 

Drawing water directly from the tap, Patrick grimaced at the taste, setting the glass in the sink and glancing around the kitchen for… what? A note? A phone number? A carrier pigeon with a map? Unsurprisingly, he found none of those. What he did find, however, was a book that had definitely NOT been in the center of his breakfast bar when he had left last night. It was one of his favorites, a slim volume of poetry that was softened with multiple readings, the embossed title smooth and familiar under his fingertips. Lewis Kingston had been a favorite of his since he could remember and was part of the reason that Patrick had decided to become a librarian, the need to introduce others to the magic, the escape and the freedom that books could hold. 

There was an envelope tucked between the pages that Patrick absolutely hadn’t placed there. Frowning, he slid it from between the pages (fifty-four and fifty-five, My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark), covered in a sharp black scrawl. ‘I thought of angels choking on their halos get them drunk on rose water see how dirty I can get them pulling out their fragile teeth and clip their tiny wings anything you say can and will be held against you so only say my name it will be held against you anything you say can and will be held against you so only say my name if heaven's grief brings hell's rain then I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday’ 

There was no punctuation or capitalization and the penmanship was enough to make a doctor wince, but there was a PW scrawled in the lower corner. Patrick gave the slightest smile, his thumb drifting over the letters before standing the envelope, his credit card statement it looked like, against the salt shaker. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a confirmation, a memory that he sorely needed and a reminder that he wasn’t alone, not always, despite what it may seem. Reading over the words once more, Patrick filed them away in his mind, right next to the glaringly obvious crush he had on a man whose last name he didn’t even know, which is okay thankyouverymuch, and headed back up the stairs towards his bedroom. There was a box on the bathroom counter with his name on it; Patrick was looking forward to feeling more like himself again, shimmering highlights and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr, I don't bite


End file.
